


Another Chance

by zizis



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-13
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-08-22 21:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 9,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16605965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zizis/pseuds/zizis
Summary: An AU. More or less set in the present day.Bernie and Serena have never met, but they are about to. They are neither of them in a good place.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> (Warnings of traumatic injury for later chapters.)
> 
> This fic is dedicated to @MegRedgrave who has patiently read each chapter as it’s been written and provided me with the encouragement to keep going. She has also created a beautiful front piece for it, which I have posted as chapter 1. 
> 
> (thanks to @keepcalmndwrite for the advice on how to post the image)


	2. Bernie

Bernie is running. She’s been running for so long now she’s forgotten what, or who, she is running from. Her passport and plane ticket sit on the desk in the blandly furnished hotel room. Her holdall is open, ready, half packed. Always half packed. Never half unpacked. For Bernie is running.

Bernie has been running for as long as she can remember. She can’t remember exactly when it began. Or so she tells herself. Was it the slap around her face, delivered by her mother, that started it ? Some nights, as she lies alone in her bed, she can still feel its sting. Her bedroom. Her best friend Laura, her blouse open, unbuttoned. Bernie’s fingers stroking Laura’s perfect new breast. The feeling of such wonder and joy spreading through her body. Then the bedroom door flung open, the sound of a gasp, and then the slap across her face as she turns to face the intruder. But more than the sting of the slap, she feels the burn of the look of disgust and horror across her mother’s face. And Bernie runs. From her room, from the house, into the fields, abandoning her friend to re-button her shirt, to make her excuses, to leave. Bernie runs. Thinks she can never come home again, never face her mother again. Waits till it is dark, then creeps back, and slips under the cover of her duvet. Nothing more is said. Not by her mother. Not by Laura, who never comes round for tea again. And not by Bernie.

In later years she will run to the army. To the RAMC, who will sponsor her through her medical degree in return for the promise of years of service from her thereafter. When her dreams refuse to let her go, she runs into the arms of Marcus, in the vain hope this will make her dreams go away. It doesn’t. They don’t. Instead she runs back to her tours of duty. But even there the dreams persist, worming their way through the blood and the sand. As soon as someone gets too close, Bernie turns and runs again. Back to Marcus. Back to the army. Back to Marcus and Cam. Back to the army. Back to Marcus, Cam and Charlotte. Running from them, running to them. Til she no longer knows which, only that she is getting tired, so tired.

And then Alex happens. Alex kisses her. She simply turns her head towards her as they sit side by side beneath the desert stars, leans in and kisses her. And the same feeling of wonder and joy that she felt all those years ago courses through her. It sings to her, “Stay. Stay a while.” Bernie is tired. She thinks maybe this time she will stop running.

And for a while she wonders why she ever ran at all. They weave a secret cocoon around themselves. She thinks maybe this is where she has been running to, that maybe she has come home. That is until the day she comes back to barracks unexpectedly after a particularly bloody mission, and bursts into her lover’s room intending to throw her battered dusty self into her arms, and instead sees Alex’s head rising and falling between the open thighs of a nameless woman. Then she turns and runs again. Doesn’t stop for empty explanations.

And Bernie keeps on running. Resigns her commission. Divorces Marcus. Keeps on running. She pauses for breath here and there. A locum civilian trauma surgeon for hire. But not for too long.

Her flight to the Sudan, to work for six months in a relief hospital, leaves Paris Charles de Gaulle airport tomorrow. Bernie is running. But not tonight. Tonight she has other plans. Her shirt is crisp white, freshly ironed courtesy of hotel housekeeping. It looks good against her now permanently tanned skin. Tonight Bernie has other plans. It has been at least three months since she has had sex with another person. She needs to feel the clench of someone else around her fingers, the scent of someone else on them. She pulls on her jacket. Runs her fingers through her hair. Taps the wallet in her pocket. Tonight she has other plans.


	3. Serena

Serena is drowning. She struggles to keep her head above the sea of tears. Tears she has cried herself. Tears of rage, of fury, of loss.

There have been times before in her life where she has struggled to keep her head above the water. Times when she thought she couldn’t, but found that somehow she had. The therapist who reached out and held her whilst the cracks in her split open that year at Harvard. Who listened and heard her, and gave her the tools to keep herself afloat. The rage and anger she grabbed hold of like a lifeline to haul her up and away from the mire of Edward’s final infidelity, as it threatened to sink her under a wave of humiliation and betrayal. Gasping for air as her mother’s desperate dementia threatened to pull her under.

She’d survived all these. But this…. This is like nothing that had gone before. She can no longer see a reason to reach out, to clutch hold of something, to keep her head above the water. Her only daughter. Dead. Gone. The waves crash over her, battering her relentlessly. Loss. Pain. Grief. Guilt. They pound her, mercilessly. She flees her work, her friends, her home, her country, but still the tsunami chases after her.

Serena is drowning. But she has not drowned yet. Not quite.

Serena craves oblivion. She tries to drown out the tears by turning to her old friend, the grape. It betrays the friendship, and brings no relief. So tonight, in this hotel, in Paris, she will try another route. She sits in front of the dressing table mirror, and paints her face. A face that will attract, invite desire, inspire want. She knows how to display herself for the male gaze. The cut of her top perfectly placed to draw the eye to just a hint of cleavage and a suggestion of what lies beyond. For tonight she wants a man in her bed, in her body. Someone with just enough energy and skill to tip her into that oblivion, to make her forget for a moment.


	4. Chapter 4

Serena is nursing her second, or is it her third, glass of wine. She notices a woman arrive, and mount a bar stool at the other end of the bar counter. Wonders for a moment if she has competition, and watches as the woman orders a tumbler of whiskey. Then decides perhaps not.

Turning back to her own drink, she sighs. Resigns herself to another night alone. Her efforts have not failed exactly. But neither the neat well suited sterile executive type, nor the portly slightly sweaty salesman, each of whom offered to buy her a drink, exuded even a flicker of the energy she craved, and she had politely, even sweetly, declined their offers, in the hope that something, someone, more suitable might approach. But now her own energy is waning, disappointment slowly sapping it away. There will be no oblivion tonight. She knows she can no longer find it for herself, no longer has the capacity to shut out her own agonising thoughts. Frustrated, she lifts the glass to drain it.

“Can I buy you another ?”

She is surprised by the voice at her shoulder. It is soft and low. It is a woman’s voice. She turns. It is the woman from the other end of the bar.

“Shiraz, is it ?”

The woman has been watching her, paying attention. Seen the men dispatched, the wine drunk and charged to her own room tab. The woman is tall and slender, crisply dressed. Serena is immediately caught by the smattering of freckles across the nose of her tanned face, and her hooded dark eyes, by the thick mane of blonde hair which falls to just above her shoulders. Notices how she pushes back a stray lock behind one ear, as she smiles and repeats,

“It is Shiraz you’re drinking, isn’t it ?”

She feels a bounce of energy reignite within her. Unexpected, but…

“Yes. And thank you.” She surprises herself.

The woman signals to the barman and climbs astride the stool next to her. There are no introductions. There is wine for Serena and another whiskey for herself. As the woman lays down her card to pay, Serena notices her hands, her long slender fingers, her neatly manicured short nails. She doesn’t know why exactly, but a small shudder of anticipation runs down her spine. Is this what she thinks it is ? This is…..unexpected. Not exactly on her radar.

The woman smiles again. “Passing through ?”

Serena nods. She understands the rules. Best to make all expectations clear. This is for tonight only.

“Yes,” she replies, “Though I’ve not yet decided exactly where to.”

It is true.

“Me too. I leave tomorrow for a posting in Sudan.”

“Military ?”

“Of a fashion.”

No more information. Silence.

The woman speaks again. “I couldn’t help noticing your….suitors….” is that the right word she wonders, “were not to your taste.”

Taste. Serena savours the word, which suddenly seems imbued with sensuous promise.

The woman continues, “I thought perhaps you might prefer the company of someone,” she pauses, “….different.”

There is no doubt as to what is being proposed. Serena has never been with a woman before. The situation has simply never arisen. And she has not had cause to give it much thought. Until now. And in the moment she thinks, why not ? This woman is beautiful. To surrender oneself to such beauty….

“I quite think I might,” she smiles back, a beam breaking across her face, creasing at the edges of her mouth, her eyes sparkling with a light long absent.

The woman smiles back at her, her eyes meeting hers, holding hers. Then Serena feels the gentle brush of the woman’s fingers as they, barely perceptibly, sweep along her lower arm, her wrist, her hand falling softly atop Serena’s. Serena looks down at it. A gentle squeeze. She swallows. Feels the catch in her own breath, the warmth already pooling between her thighs. She feels want. She clutches at her wine glass with her free hand, as if to steady herself against something familiar, then raises it to gulp back a mouthful of the dry deep liquid.

“Your room ?” she hears the other woman say.

She nods in answer. Sees the smile, warm, reassuring. Watches as the woman takes a last swig from her tumbler and walks a few steps back, offering her hand to Serena as she too dismounts from her stool, heart pounding.

In the lift to the second floor the woman leans in and kisses her. Lips soft and warm, gently pressed against hers, then opening, her own mirroring, tongues gently seeking each other out. Desire floods through her. This is nothing like she has ever known before. She wants. She wants so badly. Her fingers tremble as she tries to swipe the key card through the lock to her room.

“I’ve never….” she mumbles.

Again, the soothing voice behind her.

“It’s okay. I have.”

And the door is open.

 

 

 

 


	5. Chapter 5

She wakes in the morning from a deep sleep. Deep and dream free. Stretching, she wonders momentarily where she is. Then slowly recalls. Turns. The bed beside her is empty. A note on the pillow.

“Take care. B x”

The woman is gone. She knew she would be. The woman with no name. Just an initial. B. She lies back and closes her eyes again, biting gently at her lower lip, as she replays the previous night in her head.

 

*********

 

The door closes behind them. The woman reaches around her, drawing her in for another kiss. Serena’s hands catch her head, pulling her nearer, deeper, her hands losing themselves in the blonde hair.

Pulling apart for air, Serena hears herself say out loud, “I want you. Please,” her voice straining, breathless.

The woman leans in, kisses the side of her neck, nipping lightly as she moves around, beneath her chin, across her throat. Every millimetre of Serena’s skin is crying out to be touched by her. She feels the buttons of her top being undone. Feels it pushed back across her shoulders and away. She feels the woman’s hands cup each of her breasts. Hears herself moan as the woman bends and traces her tongue along the lace edge of her bra. Feels the woman’s thumb through the fabric, as it sweeps across her hardened nipple. She wants.

“Please,” she begs.

The woman reaches behind her to unclasp the bra, then leans in again to take a nipple into her mouth, her tongue gently circling it. And then suddenly she is sucking on it, hard, mercilessly. It is pain. It is exquisite pleasure.

Serena cries out, “Oh God!”

Her cunt is burning with need. She grabs at the woman’s shirt, clumsily pulling at the buttons. Her fingers brush against the smooth skin at her waist as she fumbles for the zipper of the woman’s jeans. The woman pulls back, tugs at them herself to step out of them, her feet pushing her boots free. Her hands move up beneath Serena’s skirt, rucking it as she cups Serena, wet with want.

“Take it off,” she commands.

Throat dry, Serena reaches obediently behind herself to undo it, and lets in fall to the ground. The woman pushes her gently back onto the bed. She removes Serena’s shoes one by one, all the time looking intently into Serena’s eyes. Then she reaches round to release her own bra. Her breasts are smaller than Serena’s, their dusky pink nipples proud. Serena reaches up to hold them, to feel them straining against the palm of her hand.

The woman’s hand is pressed against her again. She arches up into the pressure, the heel of the woman’s hand grinding against her clit, her fingers pressing against the fabric of her drenched underwear.

Again, a voice she recognises. Her own. Urgent.

“Fuck me.”

And then the fingers dip beneath the fabric and plunge inside her. It is almost brutal, this onslaught. She clutches at the sheets as her body strains and pants. She doesn’t care. She needs. Her cry bursts from her as her muscles spasm and contract, the rush filling her ears, her heart pounding so hard she half thinks it will break into pieces, panting as it slows.

The woman has stilled, her fingers still resting inside her. She is looking down at her intently.

“That. Bloody hell,” Serena stutters.

The woman smiles, enigmatically.

And then Serena feels the fingers moving again inside her, gently, rocking.

“More ?” she hears her ask.

Serena thinks. More ? After that ? Really ? But her body is twitching and the fingers are moving more insistently now. She needs.

“More,” her answer.

This time the pleasure washes through her. The woman’s mouth is at her breast, her neck, hot breath against her ear. The fingers of her other hand work circles around her clit, as those inside her build their pace. The woman is astride her thigh and, as Serena drifts in and out of bliss, she feels the woman grinding against her leg. A focus switches on. Her eyes, now open, fixed and held in the other woman’s stare, they move together in an increasing rhythm. Serena feels herself burst over her hand as she watches the flush spread across the other woman and the almost silent cry as the woman arches her back and reaches her own climax.

For a moment neither moves, their breaths panting in tandem. She feels the woman’s eyes boring into her. There is nowhere left to hide. She has never felt so naked, so exposed. For a moment she feels light. And then it comes. The wave. Of grief. It rises high above her and then crashes all around her in a torrent of heaving sobs. She cannot help herself. All her defences have been swept away. It pours out of her. Grief. Loss. Pain.

The woman pulls back. In surprise. In shock. But she doesn’t move away. Instead an unexpected tenderness. She stretches her arm around Serena and gently pulls her to her chest, lets her sob against her naked skin, strokes her silvered hair and softly kisses the top of her head. She asks no questions. Just lets her sob. And holds her.

Serena has no idea how long she cries for. She feels surprisingly safe in this stranger’s arms. Eventually the flood waters start to recede, but still the stranger holds her, steady, unquestioningly.

She feels she owes her an explanation, to reassure her it wasn’t anything she’s done. Feels she owes her that at least. The words are hard for her to say. She is not used to saying them out loud.

“My daughter,” she whispers, “She, she….” Can she say it ? “She died.”

She feels the woman squeeze her a little tighter. The door is open.

“My only child. Twenty two. Everything was ahead of her. She was there. And then she wasn’t. There was so much I wanted for her, so much I wanted to say to her. To tell her. How much I loved her. How proud I was of her. My beautiful little girl.”

And then the tears come again. Silent this time, trickling down her cheeks.

“My beautiful little girl. I miss her. I miss her so much.”

The woman gently rocks her in her arms, kissing the top of her head, her forehead, her salty cheeks, the corner of her mouth, and then her lips. Soft, gentle. Demanding nothing. Tender. And Serena finds herself kissing her back. Small, delicate, cushioned kisses. Hands are gently stroking backs. The kisses deepen, soft and warm. This is not need or want. This is all tender and giving. There are kisses across her chest, her belly, underneath her arms. She is being lavished with care.

The woman looks up as if to ask, is this okay ? Serena nods. The kisses move lower. Her legs part as the woman’s lips press against her inner thigh, then up, lightly pressed against her core. She feels herself melt against the woman’s lips and tongue. It builds gently, this feeling of drifting in an ocean of ecstasy. It creeps up on her unexpectedly, as the woman salves and sucks.

“Inside me,” she whispers.

And the woman slides her fingers inside her, her mouth still pressed against her. All sense of time disappears again as Serena comes in wave after wave against her.

 

********

 

Bernie watches as Paris disappears beneath the clouds, as the wings of the plane bank slightly as it turns south, towards Africa, to the Sudan. But the image of the woman last night refuses to disappear, and, as she sits back in her seat, she finds she is content to let it stay. It wasn’t that she was beautiful, or that she was delicious. Certainly she was both. No, it was something more. Her vulnerability. Her honesty. She cannot say for sure why, but there is even a part of her who would have liked to get to know her more, to stay for a while. The woman had asked nothing of her, and yet Bernie felt she wanted to give to her. Ridiculous. It was just a one night stand. Just sex. And very good sex at that.

And yet. When she held her. When she cried. All Bernie had wanted to do was take away her pain. Such pain. To lose a child. And then the guilt comes. Cam. Charlotte. What if she never saw them again ? What if she never got a chance to mend what lies broken ? What if she never got to tell them that she still loves them, that, no matter what has happened between them, she is proud of them ? Her children. Her blood. They are angry with her. Hurt by her. But she still has a chance.

The steward brings her a whiskey. She still has a chance. And she will take it. As she raises the miniature bottle to her lips, she makes a silent vow, in honour of the woman and her lost daughter, to take that chance.

 

********

 

Serena checks out of the hotel later that day. She knows where she is going now. Buys a ticket at Gare du Nord for the Eurostar to London. And then on to Holby. It is time. It is time to ask for help. It is time to accept help. She is ready to stop drowning.


	6. Holby : A year or so later

“Can you finish up for me please,” Serena gesticulates to her registrar, pulling the gloves from her hands as she leaves the operating theatre. The operation is over. Just the final suturing to be done. This is what she does. What she does well. But she has hated today. A young woman’s life changed forever. Her mangled foot and the lower part of her leg lying discarded in the theatre bin. Hours of concentrated surgery reconstructing shredded and crushed blood vessels and nerves to save what they could. She cannot wait to get out of the room.

Washed and changed out of her scrubs, she strides into her office, shutting the door firmly behind her. Her back against it, head tipped back,

“Shit, Shit, shit, shit.”

A knock.

“You ok, Serena ?”

Raf’s voice.

“Fine. Just give me a moment.”

She hears him move away. He returns shortly, two mugs of coffee in hand, and enters the office. Serena is sat at her desk, staring at the screen of her computer.

“Thought you could do with one of these.”

“You’re a gem, Raf.”

“Tough one ? Elinor ?”

Serena nods, “Not much older than she would have been. Bloody drunk driver. Completely crushed her leg. Couldn’t save it all. Bastard. I gather all he got was a rather bad headache.”

“At least she’s still here, thanks to you.”

“Poor girl. Is she awake yet ?”

“No. Still in recovery. Then it’s up to ICU until she’s out of the woods…There’s a parent though. In the family room. Want me to handle it ?”

“No, I’ll do it.”

“Looks like a toughie….”

“I’ll be fine, Raf. Fine.”

Serena smooths her shirt down, runs her fingers through her hair, and takes a breath. Always the most challenging bit, families.

 

************

 

The woman is facing away from her as she enters the family room, her mobile pressed to her ear. She waits for her to finish and turn. Hears her say tersely, “I’ll call you Marcus. As soon as I know anything. Of course I know you’re her father. I told you. I call you as soon as.”

Serena shuts the door behind her to announce her arrival and introduces herself.

“Mrs Dunn. I’m Serena Campbell. I operated on Charlotte a short while ago…”

“Berenice Wolfe, actually. Major.” the woman corrects her as she turns around, and then stops abruptly.

For a moment both women freeze. Of course they recognise each other. A thousand questions burst into the air between them. But neither speaks them. This moment is not about them.

“Charlotte ?” The question is urgent. “How is she ?”

It pulls Serena back to her professional self.

“She’s in recovery now. I’m afraid it was a very serious injury. Her leg was very badly crushed in the collision. We did all we could but I’m afraid we had to amputate the lower section of her leg, below the knee.”

“You amputated ?” Bernie’s voice slows with disbelief. She knows what this means. How many times has she had to remove shattered limbs herself ? But that was in the field of war. To be expected. But this is home. It is supposed to be safe. Her baby girl is supposed to be safe. Her beautiful blossoming daughter. Mutilated. By this woman ? All she can think of is her perfect Charlotte. She thinks of the pain and terror etched on the faces of the soldiers she’s operated on. Whole futures changed in the flash of an explosive device. Months of pain, years of learning to adapt. Ravaged bodies. But not her daughter. Not her baby girl.

She gathers up her inner major. Civilian doctors. Damn them.

“Was there really no other option ?” Hard. 

There must have been. This isn’t the battlefield. This is a fully equipped purpose built hospital, not a make do operating theatre in a tent.

Serena senses the sharp edge to her question. Bristles in response.

“I’m afraid not. We saved as much of her leg as we could.” She softens a bit. Compassion. Remember this is a parent, anxious and frightened for her daughter, “And there are wonderful advances in prosthetics and regaining mobility these days, especially with below the knee amputations…”

“I’m well aware of that,” the woman’s clipped retort, “A transtibial amputation. I’m a trauma surgeon myself. Who made the decision ? Was a vascular specialist not consulted ?”

Serena’s professionalism is being tested. Her judgment questioned. As if she would do anything but what was in the best interests of her patients. Any residual image she may have been carrying of this woman, of any tenderness, dissolves, like a piece of camera film melting in the glare of a projector light. She puffs herself up.

“I am a vascular specialist. I can assure you there was no choice. And it was a decision that could not wait. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’d like to go and check on your daughter. I’ll arrange for you to see her as soon as she is awake.”

And with that she turns and leaves the room, without so much as a glance back.

 

*********

  

“They’ve taken her up to ICU,” Raf tells Serena later. “I think the mother’s calmed down a bit now. Seems the daughter took it quite well in the circumstances, though,” he laughs wryly, “that could have been down to the drugs they gave her. Apparently she asked whether she’d get to wear a blade. Or so one of the nurses claims she heard. That’s the spirit though. Eh, Serena ?”

Serena is distracted. She can’t reconcile the woman from Paris with the Major Wolfe she’s just met. It’s a moment or two before she responds.

“Yes. Yes.”

“Why don’t you head off home ? Your shift finished ages ago, You must be exhausted.”

“In a minute or two.”

“Well, I’m off. See you tomorrow, Serena. Get some sleep.”

And Raf heads off home.

Serena remains at her desk. She has been toying with a small weathered piece of paper. On which are written the words “Take care. B x” She’s been carrying it around in her wallet this past year. Like some sort of talisman. How misplaced her judgment of the woman was. Well, she knows what “B” stands for now. Berenice Bloody Wolfe. At least with Charlotte gone from AAU, they’ll be no need for their paths to cross again. She screws the note up and tosses it into the bin as she stands up to grab her coat and leave.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Charlotte is sleeping now. Bernie has been keeping vigil by her bed. The nursing staff have brought her a blanket and a, now cold, cup of tea. She’s not planning on leaving Charlotte’s bedside anytime soon.

She looks across at her slumbering daughter. The monitor beeps gently. Constantly. All is well. But for the frame raising the sheets above where the remainder of her leg lies bandaged, you’d have no idea anything had changed. Her daughter’s stoicism surprised her. She’d expected more shock, more fear. Maybe that’s still to come. But for now at least, “I’m still here Mum. I’m still here,” will do.

She thinks back over the last six months since she got back from the Sudan. The uncomfortable first meeting. Trying to find words. The right words. Never something Bernie’s found easy. It was the simple honest ones in the end. “I’ve missed you.”

A second chance. No running away when it gets hard. Not this time. This was the gift she’d been given, the lesson she’d been taught. Another chance. Thanks to that night. Thanks to….Serena Campbell. Bernie hides her head in her hands. She is ashamed. Mortified. Serena has given her back her daughter – twice. That night, and now again. You idiot. You stupid, stupid idiot. It could have been so much worse. I’m still here Mum. I’m still here. Because of Serena Campbell. And what did Bernie do ? Questioned Serena’s competence, her judgment. She must try to make amends. Apologise.

 

**********

 

All hospitals have florists. Marcus arrives early the next morning. Charlotte is still sleeping and Bernie has no wish to sit silently in a room with her ex husband. An uneasy politeness masking the still bitter taste of resentment. She wanders in search of the florist. It is decades since she’s navigated a maze of long hospital corridors. All her doctoring has taken place either in the field or makeshift hospital tents, more latterly in refugee camps. Why is she surprised by how she feels ? She’s witnessed it every day – in the eyes of parents sitting at the side of their hungry battered children’s beds, the dull exhausted hope that still lingers, that even now these young lives can be saved, despite the swollen hungry stomachs, despite the missing limbs. Is this what being a parent is ? Witnessing your child’s battle and having to trust that someone else can save them.

She asks directions. The choice is limited but she selects a generous bouquet of whites, greens and purple. That is the easy bit. The note to accompany it is much harder. Her pen hovers above the card. Her mind slips back to that night. She can taste the salt tears on her tongue. She can taste Serena Campbell on her lips. It is such a mess. If they were to have met again, how different she wished such a reunion to have been. Only now, with Charlotte out of the woods and resting, does she allow herself to reflect on how often she has lain in bed at night, hoping, dreaming, that their paths might cross again. Too late now.

“Please accept these as a token of my apology for my appalling behaviour. It was inexcusable. I’m so sorry. Bernie Wolfe.”

She licks the small envelope down and addresses it. “Ms Serena Campbell. AAU” The florist will ensure its’ delivery. Then, feeling very small and ashamed, she slinks back to Charlotte’s bedside and a prickly Marcus.

 

**********

 

The flowers are waiting on Serena’s desk when she arrives for the start of her shift later that morning.

“An admirer ?” Raf asks when he sees them

“Not exactly,” she replies, handing him the card.

“Quite right too,” he responds after reading it.

Serena says nothing. She is not quite sure what to make of it. Not quite sure what to make of Bernie Wolfe at all.

 


	8. Chapter 8

Their paths do in fact cross again a few days later. Serena is approaching Pulses, desperate for a coffee, when she sees Bernie already at the counter, making her order. She hesitates. Should she just forgo the coffee ? She decides she’s being ridiculous and continues. Finds herself standing beside Bernie.

As Bernie hears her place her order, she looks around in surprise.

“Major Wolfe,” Serena acknowledges her quietly.

“Ms Campbell,” she replies, trying to hide the wobble in her voice.

Neither dares to catch the other’s eye, each facing forward towards the barista as they speak. Serena softly clears her throat.

“Thank you for the flowers.”

Bernie wants to say again how sorry she is, wants so much to make it alright between them, to shake off this mantle of awkwardness and discomfort, but no words come out. Instead, after a further short pause, it is Serena who again begins.

“Your daughter ? How is she doing ?”

Bernie gathers herself together.

“Good. Thank you. Already up on crutches a bit.”

They both know how important this is, to be up on crutches and moving about as soon as possible.

“Good, good,” Serena mumbles, her bravado rapidly diminishing, afraid to be drawn into further conversation, “Well, I wish her well. Now, if you’ll excuse me….” and she gratefully grabs her now ready coffee and beats a hasty retreat.

Bernie feels rather than watches her withdrawal. Closing her eyes, she sighs sadly to herself. There is no way back from here.

 

**********

 

Charlotte’s recovery is in fact going well, at least physically. The wound is healing. She’s up on crutches and will be discharged soon. Of course there will be months of physiotherapy ahead, and decisions about prosthetics to be made. The initial stoicism has slipped a little. Bernie can see it her daughter’s face. She catches her staring at her bandaged stump as it lays stretched out on the bed. Charlotte is like her mother. Doesn’t use actual words much. But Bernie can read it in Charlotte’s eyes. The haunting anxiety. The questions. What will she be able to do ? What will it look like ? What will her stump feel like ? When will the pain stop ? She sees the moments when Charlotte wakes, forgetting for an instant what has happened, until the realisation washes over her again. Watches her jerk in silent terror in her dreams at night, as the car crashes into her again and again. Only Bernie sees this. Charlotte says nothing.

She strokes her sleeping daughter’s hair away from the beads of sweat the nightmare has left behind. She’ll get there, wherever there is. She’s like her mother. Tough. Bloody tough.

 

**********

 

And she does. Well, as far as being discharged anyway.

It is a dull grey Tuesday when Serena finds herself walking up the stairs to Keller. She casts her eye across the car park below as she does so, and comes to a halt as she recognises Bernie standing beside a car. She watches as she helps a crutched Charlotte into it. Watches her push the passenger seat back as far as it will go, to allow Charlotte plenty of room to get in, to drag her leg, or what’s left of it, round and in. To slide the crutches in beside her. Watches as Bernie shuts the door firmly after her, and walks round to the driver’s side.

Serena presses her forehead against the cool glass of the stairwell windows. She feels overwhelmed by a sense of sadness. By a feeling of loss. That’s it. She’s gone. She wishes….oh what’s the point ? But she does wish nevertheless. Wishes their meeting again had been so different. Feels the press of Bernie’s lips against her own. Shakes her head, as if to shake off the image that has formed. Futile. Presses her head again against the glass to catch one last glimpse.

As Bernie glances up, casting a farewell look at the hospital, Serena almost believes that she sees her, that their eyes meet for a second. But then Bernie is in the car, the door shut closed behind her.

“You foolish woman,” Serena mutters out loud to herself, “ you foolish, foolish woman,” and she pulls away and continues up the stairs.


	9. Chapter 9

The physiotherapist is encouraging, always positive, cheerful. A bit too cheerful Bernie thinks, irritated by the woman’s constantly chipper attitude. But Charlotte seems to feel comfortable with her, so Bernie says nothing. The physio doesn’t see the times when Charlotte rages, roars, throws her crutches across the room in frustration. Or when Bernie walks past her bedroom at night and pauses to hear her daughter sobbing into her pillow. The physio sees only the determined Charlotte. Charlotte with her jaw set firm, the interim prosthesis strapped to her leg, learning to walk on just her own two legs again, one cautious step at a time.

She learns to leave Charlotte for the physio sessions. Wanders along the public corridors of the hospital. Drinks in the smell of antiseptic that permeates the air. And starts to think of her own future plans. Begins to feel the call of the operating theatre beckoning her. Finds the notice board advertising new vacancies. Toys with the idea of applying…

 

**********

 

The meeting with HR has been scheduled for during Charlotte’s weekly physio appointment. Not even Charlotte knows of her plans, though she may have wondered why her mother is looking so smart in her trouser suit, freshly pressed shirt, and polished heeled boots. Bernie stands in the empty lift, her finger hesitating over the button for the fourth floor, for HR. It’s only a preliminary chat, she reminds herself. Nothing to be lost. As she presses the button and the doors start to close, she hears a voice call out, “Hold the doors !” and as she does so Serena Campbell breathlessly enters the space.

“Thank you,” she hears her say, before she realises who she is directing her thanks at. Then Serena sees it is Bernie. She feels the sudden flush across her face.

“Major Wolfe ?”

“Ms Campbell.”

The silence is palpable. Neither knows how to break it, what to say.

Serena is caught entirely off guard. She never thought she would see Bernie again.

Bernie had hoped…..always kept half an eye out on every visit to the hospital. But now she too finds herself unable to think of what to say.

Serena manages to compose herself first.

“I think maybe we could drop the formalities ? Serena.” And she proffers a hand in introduction.

Bernie reciprocates, “Okay. Bernie,” and she breathes a sigh of relief as she stretches out her hand to take Serena’s, “Hello Serena.”

She savours it. Serena. Saying it out loud for the first time in the presence of someone other than herself. Feels herself blush at the private recollection of having called it out in the darkness at night as she makes herself come.

Hands released they fall back into an uncomfortable silence. Bernie can’t help but compare this moment with the last time they were in a lift together. Not a helpful thought. Strangers then. But so much more strangers now.

The lift stops suddenly. No doors open. The silence is now beyond awkward, added to the anxiety that maybe they are stuck, or perhaps, even worse, maybe they aren’t and another chance will be lost when the doors slide open all too soon.

Again Serena.

“I’m sure it’s only temporary. We’ll be on the move again soon,” she reassures.

Bernie nods, hating herself for the inability to find words, actual words.

But nothing happens. They wait.

“I think maybe we should talk about….what happened,” Serena tries again.

Oh no. Bernie is still mortified by her behaviour towards Serena. She can’t bear to go over it again.

“I’m so sorry Serena,” she rushes, “It was inexcusable of me to question your judgment….I was just so shocked and worried about Char……”

“No,” Serena interrupts, “I don’t mean that. We can draw a veil over that. I mean…..before,” and she reaches out her hand to still the agitated Bernie.

Even beneath the sleeve of her jacket, Bernie feels the burn of the touch of Serena’s hand on her forearm. Their eyes meet and hold each other’s stare. Serena’s heart is pounding. She feels it too, this jolt of electricity that surges between them. She wants. She wants. She wants Bernie.

Bernie’s mouth is dry. Her tongue feels as though it is stuck to the roof of her mouth. She knows she must say something.

“I’m, I’m not great with words….” is all she manages.

Serena seems to understand this is not a “no”, not a brush off. This is asking for help.

“You eat ?” she asks.

Bernie nods.

“Well how about dinner one evening ? Somewhere away from here.”

Her courage shocks even herself. Is she really asking Bernie out ?

A smile flickers across Bernie’s face, and Serena realises that it is the first time she has seen Bernie smile since Paris. And it is beautiful. She wants to lean forward and kiss the edges of it. She doesn’t.

“Yes,” Bernie replies, and Serena can hear the relief in her voice.

“When would suit you ?”

“Anytime. I’m not exactly busy at the moment…”

And then Serena hesitates. She remembers. Isn’t there a husband somewhere ? She pulls back. She’s not playing those games.

“What about….” she tries to recall the name she overheard in her head, “is it, Martin ?”

“Martin ? Oh Marcus. My ex ? Oh. I see. No, no. Very much my ex husband. Divorced years ago.”

Serena swallows, relieved, but also embarrassed that she might seem, well, so obvious. This is just dinner. A dinner. To talk about….about what ? About how fucking Bernie, the complete stranger Bernie, has somehow changed her life. Suddenly she has cold feet. This whole thing is a ridiculous idea. She barely knows the woman. What was she thinking ?

But this time it is Bernie who brings her back. She hears Bernie’s voice, soft and low.

“I would very much like to have dinner with you Serena. Let me give you my number,” and as the motor of the lift starts up again, she scribbles her number down on the back of a scrap of paper she finds in her shoulder bag and hands it to Serena.

More courage, “and please, Serena, let’s make it soon, very soon.”

And this time, as the doors open, and Bernie leaves the lift, it is Serena who is left unable to speak, Bernie’s number pressed into her hand, the touch of Bernie’s hand lingering on her wrist as Bernie’s dark eyes look deep into her own, long enough for Serena to recognise it. Bernie wants. Bernie wants too.

 

 

 


	10. Chapter 10

Bernie stands in front of the mirror ? Will she do ? She adjusts the collar of her olive green shirt. Too much ? Does another button up. Then undoes it again. Brushes herself down, down over the charcoal grey trousers, which sit on her polished black boots – always polished, a hang over from her military days. She grabs her jacket and shoulder bag. One last glance. It’ll have to do.

Downstairs she pops her head around the lounge door. Charlotte is sitting on an armless upright chair. She is practicing how to get up from a seated position, trying to get used to a new weight balance ratio, learning the new muscle memory this demands. Bernie pauses, watching her daughter’s determination.

“I’m off now. Sure you’ll be okay ?”

“Of course Mum. I’ll stop soon, and crash out on the sofa with a movie,” Charlotte turns towards her mother, “Mum, you look gorgeous !”

“You think I look alright ?”

“Gorgeous,” Charlotte repeats, “Are you going on a date ? You never said !”

“Not exactly,” Bernie feels herself blush, as she catches Charlotte’s amused eyebrow raise.

“Well you’re certainly dressed to impress someone….Is it to do with the new job ?”

“Sort of,” Bernie mumbles, “Anyway, I doubt I’ll be back late. But call if you need anything. Promise ?”

“Just go Mum. I’ll be fine. And,” she adds, “chill.”

Chill, Bernie thinks as she gets into her car. Fine chance of that. She has no idea what this evening is supposed to be. Or what sort of reception she’ll get.

The “call” was actually a text. She was quite relieved. Talking is hard enough, worse even when you can’t see who you are talking to. It was very matter of fact, merely suggesting a time and place. Bernie replied and here she is, ready to go, but feeling oh so very far from chilled. In a way, it is work related. She’s been offered a locum position at Holby City hospital. But she feels she owes it to Serena to run it by her first, to make sure her presence in the hospital won’t make her feel uncomfortable. It’s the least she can do. So, if she tries to think of this evening as work related, maybe she won’t feel so anxious ? Well, it’s not working so far.

 

**********

 

It’s a local family run Italian restaurant, or so the on line reviews tell her. They speak of good home style cooking and an extensive wine list. Not that she’ll be indulging much in the latter. Must keep a clear head. Excuse – driving. No, drinking tonight would not be a good idea.

Walking in, she spots Serena easily. She’s seated at a table in the corner, looking, or at least pretending to look, at the menu, fiddling with the pendant on the chain around her neck. Bernie stops for a moment. She looks even more beautiful than she did that night in Paris. She’s wearing a midnight blue v necked dress, her silvered hair almost shimmering in the light from the table candle. Bernie is not sure she can go through with this, whatever this is. Considers turning and running, but then Serena looks up and sees her, a smile breaking out broadly across her face. And before Bernie realises what she is doing, she is smiling back and walking towards her.

“You came.”

“I did,” Bernie pauses, “It’s good to see you Serena.”

She thinks she would like to kiss Serena’s cheek in greeting. But doesn’t. She still doesn’t know what tonight is. Serena makes no effort to kiss hers, just signals the seat opposite her, inviting her to sit down.

That unguarded moment of the smiling welcome seems to have evaporated. They exchange pleasantries. Study the menu. Order. Talk of Charlotte. It is an irony not unnoticed by either of them that Charlotte is now a “safe” topic.

The main course arrives. Serena is slowly caressing her glass of red wine. She takes an audible breath, and starts.

“So. Paris.”

“Yes.”

Pause. Bernie takes the reigns. “I picked you up.”

“In a bar.”

Pause. Serena continues. “Where I was hoping to be picked up.”

“And we had sex.”

“Yes.” Serena blushes in the dim light.

“Very good sex.”

“Was it ? For you too ?” There is a relief in her voice. Bernie hears it.

“Oh god yes. Serena you were, are, beautiful.”

Serena blushes again, and looks up at Bernie. Neither knows what to say. An uneasy silence falls again. Their meal is getting cold.

Serena takes charge again. “So let’s just acknowledge it happened ? No moral judgments ? No feeling awkward ?”

Who are they fooling ? No feeling awkward ? Bernie doubts she’s ever felt more awkward in her life. Hears her own voice, unconvincing, reply, “Ok.”

Serena takes another gulp of her wine.

“Shall we eat ? Before it gets any colder ?”

Bernie nods. But as delicious as she’s sure the food is, it sits like a lump in her throat. She wants to tell Serena how much she’s thought about her since Paris, how many nights she’s lain in her bed wishing she could see her again, get to know her, hold her. How she hopes that they can become friends, maybe more. But she has no idea where to begin, what words to use. As before, it is Serena who starts again.

“Bernie. I hope you are not offended by my asking, but is it always women for you ?”

Bernie is almost relieved by this question. It is one she can answer, honestly.

“Yes. It always has been really. Marcus was, well, my denial period. I tried very hard to be what I thought everyone expected me to be. But eventually it just became too difficult to avoid being who I truly was. It got ugly for a while. But, here I am. Out and proud. Well, not hiding anyway…”

“I’d never been with a woman before you.”

“I know.”

“Being with you….it, it changed things.”

Bernie waits. Softens.

“It,” Serena continues, slowly, cautiously, “it, you, made me … braver. You seemed to understand me without even knowing me. You,” she takes a deep breath, “you, helped me face my demons. Helped me find my way back.”

Bernie studies Serena. There are tears in her eyes, just glistening, not falling. Serena toys with the base of her wine glass on the table, as she avoids Bernie’s gaze. Bernie reaches her hand across the table, her little finger falling to rest on Serena’s.

“You changed things for me too, Serena.”

Serena looks up, surprised.

Bernie continues, “When I met you I was estranged from my children. You showed me that I needed to find a way back whilst I still could. It seems, Serena Campbell, you’ve given me my daughter back,” she pauses, and a shiver runs through her, “twice.”

Serena watches Bernie. Neither says anything for a while. A waiter appears. Bernie withdraws her hand. He asks if they’ve finished, despite the food remaining on their plates, now cold and beyond temptation. They nod. He removes the plates.

Bernie clears her throat. “Serena. There’s something I need to tell, no, I mean, ask you.”

“Yes ?”

“I’ve been offered a locum position. At Holby. On Keller ward, I think it is ? General surgery, but on call for trauma. I, I haven’t accepted it yet. I wanted to ask you. To check with you whether you’d be comfortable with me working in the same hospital, after, everything….” she tails off, flapping her hand feebly to fill in the gap.

Serena blows out a gentle breath. This is unexpected. She’s not sure how she feels. If she hesitates, it’s not for the reason Bernie fears. It is not because she feels embarrassed about what happened, and would rather not be reminded. It is not because she resents Bernie entering into her domain. It is because she doesn’t know how she will function with Bernie around. Because all she can think about is Bernie and the possibility of being in her arms again.

Bernie waits. Bernie waits for her answer.


	11. Chapter 11

It is weeks after Bernie starts work at Holby before they run into each other. Serena knows that Bernie has already started work there. There’s always a bit of a buzz when a new consultant arrives. But somehow, despite always having one eye looking over her shoulder, Serena never sees Bernie. Ric speaks highly of her, even though it seems they’ve managed a few run ins already. Serena has done her homework though. It seems Berenice Wolfe has quite a reputation as a trauma surgeon, though she never seems to stay in one place for long. But AAU is busy. Always busy. And though Serena thought maybe she should seek Bernie out, to say hello, under the pretence of a professional welcome, as the weeks have gone on, she feels she’s missed the boat. She begins to doubt again. Not how she feels, but whether she misread Bernie. Maybe she was just another of Bernie’s, no doubt many, conquests after all.

The trauma call comes in. A collapse of scaffolding at a building site. Crush injuries and an impalement. They’re sending them straight down to AAU. They prepare themselves, and Serena hears herself saying, “Page Ms Wolfe.”

Bernie smiles as she arrives, and Serena feels a little less anxious. But it is Raf who welcomes her.

“Good to have you on board, Ms Wolfe.” And he repeats to her what they’ve been told of the injuries coming in.

Serena asks Bernie to assist her on the patient with the most severe injuries. She wonders how Bernie will be with Serena as her lead. But in the end there is nothing to worry about on that score. With some consultants there’s a tousle to establish superiority. But Serena finds that there is no ego here. It’s all about skill, capability, and an innate confidence. And working alongside Bernie there’s no need to disagree. They each know exactly what of their particular skill is required and when, and they work together, not in conflict. There’s a mutual respect, and a mutual understanding.

But there’s no time for Bernie to linger after the long surgery is complete. Time only for a “Thank you,” and the promise of a coffee “sometime”, before Bernie has to return to Keller. 

Afterwards, completing her notes, Serena wonders if working alongside Bernie is always like that. She reflects on how much she enjoyed it. Recalls Bernie’s nimble gloved fingers almost dancing inside the patient’s body cavity. Her eyes above her mask checking in with Serena’s for confirmation she was happy with her surgical decisions. The excitement they clearly both felt at the adrenalin rush of having to think and work fast, a man’s life in their hands. And she’s good. Bloody good. That is clear. She wonders if this is just a one off. Hopes she’ll have the chance to find out before too long.

And she does. A few days later, Bernie is called upon again. Again they work together, seamlessly, as though they have been working side by side for years. Bernie’s eyes seem to sparkle above her mask as they meet Serena’s. In the scrub room afterwards there is time for a little more of an exchange. They keep it professional….they are not alone. Until they are the only two left.

“A real pleasure working with you, Ms Wolfe.”

“Likewise, Ms Campbell. Ummm, time for that coffee ?” Bernie feels brave. In fact Bernie feels magnificent. She often does after surgery. Knows she is a magnificent surgeon. And is delighted to find that Serena is too.

“I’d love to. But, I can’t at the moment.”

Serena catches the flicker of disappointment across Bernie’s face. Takes a breath and, “But how about meeting up some time when we’re not on shift ?”

“Sounds like a plan,” Bernie’s face lights up, “When are you off ?”

“Sunday any good ?”

“I think it is.”

“There’s a really lovely café near where I live. Brunch ?”

 

*********

 

Sunday is a grey day. The sky hangs heavy, threatening. Neither Bernie nor Serena notice it much. The café to which Serena is taking Bernie is in the middle of a patch of woodland. Paths weave through the ancient tall trees, till they reach the clearing where the café nestles, vines winding and curling above the roof of the porched area where they sit themselves.

There is no one else about, despite it being a Sunday. Maybe everyone else has seen the weather forecast. They order a plate of pitta bread and various dips, to share. There is a lightness now, an ease between them. Whatever this is, no longer seems fraught. They like each other’s company.

They talk of surgeries, of stories from their lives. And they relax. Serena hears Bernie’s honking laugh for the first time. Adores its’ openness, its’ lack of self censorship.

Before too long Serena finds herself asking the question she’s wanted to ask since dinner that night.

“Is there someone in your life now ? A partner ?”

Bernie looks sheepish, embarrassed.

Serena continues. Time for cards on the table. “Since Paris. I’ve, well, no one.”

It is the first reference to Paris since they’ve become colleagues, friends. The atmosphere shifts.

Bernie is weighing up whether to risk being honest. This friendship is new and beautiful. But still strange. Not yet familiar. She doesn’t want to jeopardise it. But what will do more harm, a lie or the truth ? No friendship can last if it is built on a lie. Truth it is.

“No one in particular. There’ve been other women. Always are. I don’t do relationships…..you’ve seen what I do,” she pauses, her face suddenly serious and open, “….but….” 

“Yes ?” Serena waits.

And Bernie knows, knows what she needs to say, what she has to say, what she can't help but say, “….they keep not being you.”

Neither moves. The air feels heavy, full. Serena’s hand moves across the table and settles on Bernie’s arm. Softly her thumb strokes across Bernie’s wrist. She leans in across the table and finds Bernie does likewise. The kiss is gentle. Almost fleeting. Their lips touching together before each sinks back slowly.

“Bernie.”

Bernie just answers by looking down at Serena’s hand and taking it in her own, caressing it gently.

The skies open. The rain falls. Heavy. Thick. The vines drip bold swollen droplets beside them. Serena turns to watch them, her hand still in Bernie’s. She turns back to Bernie, smiling. The air is wet and charged.

“Bernie,” she says again. Because she can. Because she wants to. Again and again.

“Come back to mine ?” she whispers.

Bernie nods.

They walk back along the winding paths, side stepping the little rivers now forming along them. Only Serena has thought to bring an umbrella, so they curl up close beneath it. The rain drums on the thin fabric above them. Serena can barely breathe for the tension that holds them both. She knows this is different. Tucked up beneath the umbrella she can feel the pounding of Bernie’s heart against her.

Her home is not far. Opening the front door, they kick off their now muddy shoes, and shrug off their coats. Serena’s hands cup Bernie’s head. They thread her fingers through Bernie’s hair, and pull her close for a kiss. Their mouths open to each other, hungry yet soft, warm. Bernie’s arms reach around Serena, enveloping her, pulling her close.

Breaking for air, foreheads resting against each other, Serena hears Bernie softly moan her name.

“Serena.”

It is full of longing, full of hope.

She takes Bernie’s hand and leads her up the stairs.

 

*********

 

In the morning Serena awakes. There is no note on the pillow next to her this time. Instead there is a mess of blonde hair. Bernie. And there always will be. Every day. Serena smiles. Bernie opens her eyes. Blinks. Then smiles back. The sort of smile that you know will taste of chocolate and honeycomb.

Bernie has stopped running.

 


End file.
